


Sgraffito

by astrovius



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Art School, Family Issues, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Loughborough University, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Moriarty Is A Maniac, Sebastian has a sister, Starving Artists To The Max, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-08-31 02:13:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8559355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrovius/pseuds/astrovius
Summary: Sebastian never thought he'd manage three years of a Fine Art degree, but he's a whisker away from having a BA (Hons) to show for his tedious work. All he has to do is complete one more year of painting and sketching and ignoring the unpredictable young man working in the studio next door.The man that Sebastian's art definitely hasn't become fixated on.Definitely not.





	1. A Firelit Introduction

A swirl in the muddied water. A daub of thick green paint. A clean stroke across the paper.

Sebastian can't remember why he'd opted for Loughborough over Brunel.

Swirl. Daub. Stroke.

Or UCL, or Oxford. Hell, even Edinburgh would have been better than this. Loughborough Arts Block is buzzing with new students, all eager, smiling faces and exorbitantly-priced shirts that are slowly being adorned with smears of acrylic and clay.

Darken the green paint. Lighter strokes this time.

University was supposed to be the best three years of your life, bridging the gap between the archaic control of the school system and the monotony of adult life.

Swirl. Daub -

Sebastian doesn't manage to catch the plastic beaker before it topples over, spilling grey all over his sketchbook.

A feeble "Sorry!" from the red-head with the comically undersized backpack doesn't even begin to cut it. He rips the ruined pages out of his book, screwing them up tightly and tossing them in the vague direction of the bin before leaving the dripping table for someone else to clear up.

He barges past a boy struggling to carry a model bust as he heads out of the building, and doesn't stop at the dull clunk as the wet clay hits the floor.

 

 

—————

 

 

Sebastian is already fishing for a lighter as he walks across the street. A car screeches to a halt and he jumps, nodding a silent apology and awkwardly hopping the remaining distance to the opposite pavement. He tries the other pocket, and comes away empty-handed. Of all the days to forget a lighter. Sighing, he leans against the wall of an artisan bakery, tipping his head back to rest on the rough brick. His lungs ache for harsh smoke, and his hand itches by his side just wishing to make the rhythmic movements to and from his mouth. He pulls the cigarette from behind his ear, scowls at it, and snaps it roughly in half before tossing it to the pavement and grinding it roughly under the heel of his boot.

He’s almost tempted to do the same to his phone when a shrill _beep_ -di- _beep_ floats from his satchel. Instead he digs deep through the mess of paintbrushes and loose papers to find the damned thing, rolling his eyes and even managing the wisp of a smile at the message from his sister.

                _Just bought Mum’s Christmas present. Think she’ll like it? -Vi_  
  
The attached photo is of a leather-bound notebook, a cranberry cover with gaudy gold swirls. His father would hate it, and would grimace politely as his mother fawns over the pattern with ‘ _oh, you shouldn’t have’_ s and _‘this is just divine’_ s and _‘look, Augustus, it has my initials embossed into it’_ s until his teeth threaten to grind down to stumps if he doesn’t stop clenching them.

_It’s perfect._

Not that he’ll see his mother’s reaction, of course. He hasn’t been welcome home for two – no, three years now, not since a sullen seventeen-year-old version of himself confiscated his great-grandmother’s sherry glass and told his cousin Walter that blessing the sorry excuse for a meal his mother had served up was an insult to God. Sebastian sported a black eye all the way up to New Year for his insolence; it seemed a harsh penalty for such a tame insult.

_See you soon? -Vi_

The Christmas of 2006 had been ‘ _ruined, positively ruined’_ , in the words of his hysterical mother, and as he’d left the family home with a sports bag and an open invitation to sleep on his friend Hugh’s couch he’d bid the building goodbye with a smug middle finger.

                _I’ll let you know when I’m next in London._

Sebastian opens his bag again, dropping the phone into the abyss just as it sounds again, presumably with a soppy text declaring all that he’s been told a hundred times before – that his mother misses him (she doesn’t), that letters are _still_ arriving at the house addressed to him (they’ll no doubt be tossed into the fire within the week) and that Violet loves him (a sentiment he reciprocates ten-fold). She will turn sixteen this month. He makes a mental note to pick up something simple to post to her.

The massacre of tobacco around his feet stares melancholic up at him, and he plucks another cigarette from his pack, swearing as he realises he’s still without a spark. A group of boys walks past, school blazers hanging gracelessly and ill-fitting over their shoulders, and he opens his mouth to chance his luck to borrow a lighter when a soft tap on his arm turns him around to an open flame. He ducks, finally sucking in the acrid smoke he’s been craving as the tip begins to glow, and when he straightens he finds himself staring at a boy who, even while standing two steps above him, doesn’t come close to being taller.

“You’re welcome,” he murmurs, smirking, and Sebastian realises he’s neglected a thank you in lieu of drinking up nicotine. He expects the boy to go on his way, but he stays put, one hand resting lightly on his hip as he tucks his lighter into his top pocket. Dark eyes bore into Sebastian’s face, and he rubs his cheek lightly in case there are stray flecks of paint on his skin.

“Art block?” the boy asks, raking his gaze up and down him.

“What’s it to you?” he replies roughly after another long drag. The boy is developed little more than a fifteen-year-old, but his stature does nothing to soften the predatory stare he’s fixed on Sebastian.

“There’s a guest speaker coming into the main gallery tomorrow, 11am. Might be of interest to you.”

Sebastian knits his eyebrows together as the boy speaks, trying to decipher where the faint lilt in his drawl comes from. Welsh or Irish, he decides eventually. He’s obviously been silent for too long, because the boy speaks again, interrupting his mental calculations into where he’s timetabled in to be tomorrow.

“See you around.”

Sebastian blinks, and the boy is gone, his black jacket blending in amongst twenty others in a crowd. 

 

 —————

 

 

 When he returns to his shoddy flat in the town centre, all he can smell is smoke. Not the pleasant musty fog of cigarette smoke, either – sharp, floral notes that make him screw up his face in an attempt to block the smell. He drops his satchel next to his bed, slips off his shoes, and lines them up neatly against the wall.

“Michael!”

His shout yields no response from his housemate, and he pads through to the living room bare-footed where he is met with a sorry sight of the man bundled in blankets and hunched up on the sofa. Michael coughs weakly. Sebastian ignores him.

“Michael, why does the house smell like a prostitute’s armpit?”

Michael mumbles, punctuating his attempt at a sentence with another feeble cough.

“Let me guess. Steph told you her hippy herbal bullshit would miraculously cure you?”

Yet another muffled grunt. Sebastian rolls his eyes, closing the door to the living room as he returns to his room.

University had been easy to adapt to at first. Two years ago, he’d been one of the bubbling crowd practically skipping through the doors on his first day with arms laden with kitchen appliances and knick-knacks he’d collected with Hugh’s help. A student loan had been an excellent idea in theory, but within weeks his bank account was a pitiful row of zeroes with only a bin full of empty bottles and a few art history books to show for it. Still, he’d marched on, surviving on a full and nutritious diet of Pot Noodles and own-brand cola with a coffee here and there when he could afford it.

At the end of the first year had come the rush of applications for cheap flats around the campus. Most people had friends from their halls who had gladly accepted their invitations to split the rent three or four ways, but Sebastian had quickly realised that though his hallmates were decent enough company to drink with, each and every one had awful habits which he knew would drive him to the point of tearing his own hair out if he had to share a living space with them for more than a few hours at a time. Instead, he’d met Michael, an engineering student with a passion for nothing save for the droning lyrics of soft rock music, and fucking his girlfriend senseless to said lyrics. Sebastian pitied him, but pity was far better than hatred, and so for the last year he’d lived with the man with little more communication than deciding whose turn it was to empty the bins.

Sebastian slips off his jacket, draping it over the back of his desk chair, and flops onto the neatly-made bed, shifting until he melts into the sheets. It’s only the soft fabric of the mattress underneath him that makes him aware of how stiff he is, muscles clenched in concentration and irritation from his disastrous studio workshop, and he knows he could do with soaking in a deep bath and blocking out everything but the smell of soap bubbles, but the dim light of the room gradually coaxes his eyes shut until he’s drifting off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always loved the idea of Jim releasing his manic energy through creative outlets instead of wasting his flair on spending hours hunched over his laptop, so after weeks of putting it off I've finally started crafting myself.
> 
> The title, Sgraffito, comes from the Italian 'to scratch', and is an artistic technique where parts of an upper layer of paint/clay/plaster are scratched away to reveal a contrasting lower layer.


	2. Nothing To Worry About

The rest of Loughborough is asleep when Sebastian wakes. He runs a hand through his hair, groggily allowing his eyes to focus in the half-light, and squints at the clock on his bedside table, which flashes maliciously, taunting with the news that he’s woken just after 4am. Scrubbing at his eyes, gradually prising them open, he navigates the room to the light switch and screws them straight back closed again at the intruding brightness.

Momentarily, it seems logical to return to his bed, to fall asleep still in stiff jeans and hope for a few more hours of blissful nothingness. The light seems to have ruined any hope of sleep, however, and Sebastian instead digs through his bag, pulling out his sketchbook and tossing it haphazardly onto the desk. He takes a few steps over to join it before coming to the unpleasant realisation that in just under four hours his phone will start chirping, another painful reminder of his untimely wake-up. The device lies right at the bottom of the bag (why they made satchels without secure pockets, Sebastian could never understand) and after fishing through papers he finds it, and with it the notification he’d ignored yesterday. His prediction had been wrong – rather than Violet, the text comes from the art department.

                _The contemporary impressionist RICK REINERT will be visiting the auditorium between 11 and 3 tomorrow. All students welcome._

Michael has an overpriced laptop stashed away somewhere in his room – Sebastian only knows this because the man brags about his family’s wealth every second he has the chance to – and he chances the journey through the living room, where the man still lies sprawled on the sofa, snoring unholily loudly. The door opening doesn’t disturb his peaceful sleep, and neither does the whirring and faint beeps of electronics as Sebastian loads the laptop up. For an engineering student, he’d thought the man would be meticulous with computer security, but the laptop loads up a photo of Michael and the eccentric Steph sticking their tongues down each-other’s throats in what looks to be a coffee shop. Sebastian feels terrible for anyone who had to witness the obscene display and pities the poor photographer even more.

                **www.goggle.com  
                -No webpage found-**

Sebastian frowns, noticing his mistake – perhaps he’s not quite as alert as he’s presumed.

                **www.google.com  
                search: rick reinert**

The search returns 190,000 results, but browsing through the first page of links brings up paint-speckled streets and country lanes and skyscapes: Sebastian’s sketchbook pales in comparison. The boy had been right, and it’s only now that he considers how on earth the brunet had guessed the similarities between his work and Reinert’s. He inspects his jumper, checking for splotches of acrylic amongst the wool, but finds nothing.

Lucky guess, then.

 

 

—————

 

 

Five hours pass painfully slowly, with Sebastian growing increasingly frustrated with his own work. The paint, perfectly mixed on a palette, melds into sludge on the paper, and he rips out page after page until the book is unsalvageable, leaving him with a future damage to his bank account to worry about later.

Giving up completely seems a viable option, and he showers and dresses instead, leaving the flat with damp hair and odd socks which may or may not have been worn before – he’s not particularly fussy, but smelling the damn things seemed a little off even for his standards. For once he’s early to the art block, taking the time to rifle through drawers and pinch a few sheets of watercolour paper. Perhaps a change of medium would revitalise his creativity, he decides, and borrows an expensive palette from the stockroom that he probably won’t ever return.

His workstation is arranged neatly, brushes lined up in parallel with a clean beaker of water and several squares of towel pushed over to one side of the table. Soon it’s gone half past ten, and he decides to avoid the throngs of chattering first-years and turns up twenty minutes early to the hall. A bespectacled man with salt-and-pepper hair rivalling Sebastian’s in scruffiness turns at the sound of footsteps, and smiles lopsidedly.

“You’re eager,” Rick says with a stereotypical American twang. Sebastian smiles back, stifling a yawn.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he replies. “I looked you up at the arsecrack of dawn this morning.”

Rick laughs, a throaty chuckle that echoes through the hall.

“What did you think?”

It’s a difficult question to answer – too enthusiastic and he’ll sound just as irritating as the first-years, too nonchalant and he’ll risk insulting the man.

“I've been trying to do something like your work for my final piece,” he admits eventually. “Can’t manage it, though. Paint’s always too thick and dries unevenly.”

“Come here,” Rick says unexpectedly. Sebastian obeys, faced with a piece he recognises as ‘Golden Afternoon in Some Place I Can’t Pronounce’.

“Touch it.”

He hesitates, shooting the man an uncertain glance. Rick just nods.

The canvas is rough under his fingers – not the texture of canvas cloth he’s used to – and the paint even rougher, built up in imperfect layers with uneven edges and ridges that remind him of brick or limestone.

“You want my advice? Don’t focus on the details. Look at your work from a distance: the bigger picture’s always more impressive. Once you’ve got the composition right, _then_ go back and add to it. Beauty of oils is that if you do something you don’t like, you can always scrape some away and rebuild it.”

Sebastian nods along, already planning the day’s work in his own head.

“I’ve got a talk at one, if you’re interested in sticking around. Mostly background stuff – how I got to where I am. Hoping it’ll be useful for people working on combination degrees.”

“I’m fine art,” he replies absently. “Still sounds interesting, though. I’ll be there.”

He turns away, wanting to spend the last precious minutes of an empty room to explore properly and see snippets online gallery in the flesh.

“And lad?” comes from behind him. He stops momentarily.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Sebastian smiles wryly, already heading over to the first of many easels.

 

 

—————

 

 

He’d escaped just in time before the first wave of try-hards crowds through the double doors. The sanctuary of a quiet studio, with only one other student sat in the back corner ignoring his work in lieu of his mobile phone, is a relief.

His first attempt at priming uses too much water, and the sodden paper rips at the mere touch of a paintbrush. His second page meets much the same fate as he builds up shades of greys and browns too quickly for the paper to handle. Both are scrunched up and tossed in the direction of the bins, one missing completely and hitting the tiles with a repulsive squelch. He sighs, scrubbing a damp hand through his hair until it stands up in stray peaks.

“Mind if I put the radio on?”

The other student just shrugs in response. Sebastian takes it as a yes, and crosses the room to fiddle with knobs and buttons until the radio display lights up and begins a slow beat of claps and bass chords. On his return to his station he finds his head bobbing involuntarily to a song he’s never heard before. It’s the perfect rhythm to work to.

_“Negative, why always so negative  
If you have problems why don't you go solve them?”_

Sebastian’s brush glides over a new sheet of paper, washing the sheet with water before loading spots with a pale blue and watching the ink spread slowly. The blue is replaced with grey, blossoming up the page, and some darker grey sits at the edges and threatens to join the other colours. He rips up a piece of paper towel, aligning it so most of the drifting paint is soaked up. A few faint flourishes have seeped through when he removes it, but he simply shrugs and blends a few harsh joins together.

_“Be prepared, there must be something in you  
Turning boys to men and then back again”_

He scrapes his stool back and rises, closing one eye and then the other at the wash of colours. The distance doesn’t seem great enough, and after a quick glance at the other student (whose canvas remains as blank as his expression) he carefully mounts the stool, looming over the paper. When he straightens completely his head narrowly misses a beam lowered from the ceiling, and he cranes his neck to avoid it. The page is little more than a gradient, yet more promising than either of his previous attempts have been. A wisp of a smile graces his lips as he clambers down, taking his work to the drying rack and tucking it in between two wire grates.

 _“Doing this thing, this type of thing_  
_Put a little money in this type of thing_  
_I got nothing to worry about_  
_I got nothing to worry about”_

The paint will take an hour to dry enough to begin adding another layer of colour, but Sebastian decides to give it two. He shifts his materials to one side of the desk, dumps the cloudy water down the sink, then slings his satchel over his shoulder and leaves the room, humming faintly.

 

 

—————

 

 

With a flask of exorbitantly-priced coffee clasped in one hand, and the taste of tobacco still thick on his tongue, he slips into the hall to a round of applause. It’s not for him, of course – Rick Reinert is emerging onto the stage laden with an easel that’s easily two inches taller than him. Any seats around Sebastian are occupied by students or bags or art folders, so he settles himself against the back wall and tunes out the quiet chatter of the audience.

“After my education,” Rick begins, and the room gradually grows silent, “it took me 30 years to decide art was my passion. I gave up fame in the business sector to re-focus myself in painting. It was a hard swap to make – I had a family to raise and I was juggling looking after my boys with working odd jobs and trying to fit in painting whenever I had even a few minutes of free time.

“I was barely sleeping, barely eating, and turning up to work with paint-covered sleeves more times than I care to admit. ‘Course, that’s probably nothing new to you guys.”

A titter of laughter comes from the front of the hall.

The talk ends far too soon, and soon students are filing out, keen to get back to their studios or their dorms or their social lives to make the most of every little minute of this year. Sebastian stays put. Rick glances around the hall, catches his eye and calls out from the stage.

“Any luck?”

Sebastian shoots the man a thumbs up. Rick stops, momentarily sets his easel down and returns the gesture, before disappearing behind the stage curtain.

 

 

—————

 

 

He’s returning to the workshop now. The halls are deserted, most students absorbed in their own rooms. Sebastian passes one room after another, occasionally peering through the glass partition in the door to see artists rivalling his own stress – it’s only November, but he’d learned early on that the sooner you began to work on your final portfolio the more of the May work rush you avoid.

Each room he passes shows the same scene – students hunched over tables or furiously brushing strokes over canvas or carefully chipping away at wood or clay. It begins to get boring, and he plays a little game, trying (mostly unsuccessfully) to guess the medium each studio is specialised in. The game gets monotonous after a while, and with only a few doors left until his own room he ignores the other studios and begins to fantasise about his final piece, which he still has no idea at all where to begin with.

Lost in thought, he reaches instinctively for the handle of his room and pushes the door open roughly. It hits the wall, a loud bang that ricochets around the room, and it’s only then that he realises he’s walked into the wrong studio altogether. Instead of the customary desks and easels he’s used to, he’s met with a room lined with paint-splattered tarpaulin. A large wooden board leans up against the back wall, mounted with some kind of makeshift clamps.

There’s only one student in the room, and he doesn’t seem fazed by the intrusive noise – in fact, he doesn’t even flinch. Stood in the centre of the room, surrounded with cans and buckets and tins of paint, he dips something into a deep blue and hurls it at the wood, where it digs in and leaves a trail of paint in its wake. Sebastian squints at the object, camouflaged against the board, and-

Is that a _knife_?

The gleam of silver as the boy extracts it confirms that yes, it’s most certainly a knife.

Another dull thud sounds as another knife soars to the board, hitting just below the first in the same navy. The boy hisses, yanking it out of the wood, and as he picks his way around scattered paint cans back to the centre of the room Sebastian catches sight of his face, and recognises him straight away as his fire-wielding acquaintance from the previous day. If the boy notices him he doesn’t show it, and instantly returns his focus to launching another knife through the air.

Sebastian closes the door quietly on his way out.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of references in this piece!
> 
> Rick Reinert is a real artist, and his work is phenomenally beautiful (perhaps I'm biased as I'm a sucker for impressionism).
> 
> Find his gallery here: http://www.reinertfineart.com/rick-reinert-art-work/
> 
> The referenced piece (real title 'Golden Afternoon on Kiawah'): http://reinertfineart.com/rick-reinert-art-work/gallery/files/page5-1019-full.jpg
> 
> The song I've stolen lyrics from is one of my favourites, called 'Nothing To Worry About' by Peter Bjorn and John, and gives this chapter its title.


	3. Cold Fingers, Colder Conversation

No matter how much he turns the radio up, much to the disdain of the other students sharing his studio, Sebastian can still hear the clunks, still feel the vibrations through the walls. The background to his painting, thankfully, still meets his expectations, and he sets to work - more shades of blue, brown and grey sliding easily across the paper. A particularly violent throw, he assumes, shakes the whole room - though none of the other students seem phased – and his paintbrush jolts, sending a pale grey streak halfway across the page. He drops the brush, leaning back on his stool, balling his hands into fists of frustration. Another piece ruined.

The more he stares at his work, willing the colour to somehow evaporate off the page, the less he hates it. The beginnings of a smile work their way over his lips, and as he rocks his stool back on all four legs he’s grinning down at the paper like a madman. His next few strokes are haphazard, brushing lightly across the page in every direction; he doesn’t even need to look down to know he’ll be satisfied with the result.

A few washes of water blend the strokes together, creating pale blooms that snake up the page and into the blue. The drying rack is already filling up with students’ work, and he shifts a delicate oil sunset to make room for his merging colours. Sebastian taps the wire shelf once for good luck, twice and thrice to irritate the other students with the clink of metal against metal, before tucking his stolen palette into his satchel and rinsing his brushes, arranging them neatly in his empty water beaker. Watercolours were a versatile medium, yet the regular hourly breaks that came with working with them were mind-numbingly tedious.

 

 

—————

 

 

The street opposite is crawling with people, a hushed babble of conversations and pleasantries and failed sales pitches and everything Sebastian despises in the world. His fingers protest, whitening with the wind, as he takes a long path overgrown with weeds around the building to a bench he’d discovered by accident in his second year on a silent break from unsuccessfully crafting with clay. The wooden slats are splintering, and a crack as he sits down says he hasn’t done the bench any favours, but he adopts a particularly useful skill of ignoring everything around him as he plucks a cigarette from his pack and sparks up, staring at nothing in particular.

For an art student, Sebastian is uncommon in the fact that nicotine is his only vice. Cannabis and psychedelics constantly cycle through the art block, mostly snatched away by first years looking to be ‘inspired’ by their semi-conscious trips. Aside from the occasional drink (and even that had lost its appeal once he’d lost touch with his hallmates) and the far less occasional smoke, he’d never seen the appeal in dependence on anything but his own creativity. As far as he was concerned, if an artist couldn’t visualise a piece without bright lights obscuring their vision they didn’t deserve to be at university; the half-nonsensical chatter that came with a hall full of stoned students often added to his derision.

A window behind him snaps open as he takes another drag, and though he coughs hot smoke in his brief surprise his attention is quickly returned to the tree in front of him, branches crisp with winter frost. To most, it would simply be a tree, slowly dying with the cold; for some, it might be seen as a tragically beautiful scene. For Sebastian, all the details blur until all he can see is a million flecks of colour, bark and boughs and the occasional leaf of tiny mosaic tiles. He searches through his bag for his camera, knowing full well it’s sitting atop a pile of theory books on his desk, and settles for studying every inch of the scene until it’s fully formed in his mind and can be recreated block by block with ink.

He’s memorised the trunk, and how the roots curl and jut out of the ground in inconvenient places, when a sharp pain in his hand says his cigarette has betrayed more than just his lungs. He glances down, brushes the glowing ash from his skin and drops the butt, ruining the edge of the picturesque scene. He makes a note to transfer it to the nearest bin once his job is done.

Another short break to light another, and wait for the first breath of smoke to clear his vision, before his study continues. He reaches the branches, splitting off this way and that like blue veins snaking towards the sky, when there’s a cough that’s certainly not his.

“You lose eleven minutes of your life every time you smoke, you know,” says a familiar brogue.

“I’m going to die anyway,” Sebastian shoots back, taking a second to look over a spindly branch before turning to face the disembodied voice. “Why not indulge in life?”

The boy is shorter than he remembers, even from his low perch, but his eyes are the same dark pits that drilled holes in his own. He smirks, wrapping his woollen coat further around himself.

“Do you mind?” he asks, though he’s already shoved Sebastian’s bag onto the floor and settled himself on the bench.

“Not at all.”

The brunet doesn’t react, just flits his gaze between the tree and Sebastian, scrutinising both with equal intent.

“Cold, isn’t it?” is Sebastian’s next attempt at conversation, though he cringes at the blunt Britishness of the situation.

“It’s fucking freezing,” comes an indignant reply, followed by more staring.

Sebastian takes the hint, and transfers his attention back to the tree, eyes scanning over each and every leaf until it’s stencilled somewhere in his mind. Satisfied with his study, he decides on one more once-over to ensure his own work will replicate the image before him. Branches thin with frost, gradually growing thicker and less predictable, and –

The boy is half-way up the trunk, toes of his boots scuffing against the bark as they dig in for traction. He reaches for a sturdy-looking branch as leverage, but his fingers barely graze it, and a look of defeat darkens his face for only a second before he calls.

“Don’t just stand there, you lumping Neanderthal, help me up here!”

The order, growled from a height, should have put Sebastian off. The insults would ordinarily have had him turning on his heel lest he lose his temper and begin an undignified tennis match of unpleasantries. Instead, he finds himself flicking what remains of his cigarette away, dragging himself to his feet, and preparing a stable footing with his hands above his head. His effort is rewarded with a huff of breath and then silence.

The boy climbs higher and higher, and Sebastian has forgotten how to step back and simply cranes his neck to follow his path. The brunet pushes down on a thick branch, nodding thoughtfully as it springs back up to meet his hand, and he balances catlike on the join of the bough to pull a knife from the inside of his jacket.

It looks too big to fit inside a pocket, Sebastian has time to quickly ponder, before a scraping sound pierces the air, accompanied by occasional deep breaths. His view is obscured by branches, but he assumes the boy is carving into wood with some vigour.

“Fore!”

The muffled voice comes just in time for Sebastian to sidestep out of range before a long branch comes crashing down onto the grass. The boy picks his way down the tree and hops neatly down from the lowest bough. Sebastian goes to protest, but the boy is already inspecting the branch, crouching to run his fingers over the bark and studying the remnants on his fingers.

“Australian in origin,” he mumbles to the floor.

“The tree?”

“No, ‘fore’. Usually a golf term, but it worked well enough to get you out of the way.”

“I know what ‘fore’ mea-“

“Shhhh.”

Silence returns, and Sebastian is left staring with eyebrows knitted. He opens his mouth after an uncomfortable minute of rehearsing any conversation in his head, but the boy’s already whirled around, fixing him with steely eyes.

“Sebastian A Moran, third year fine art, no need for introductions,” he mutters, easing a splinter of wood from under his fingernail. Sebastian’s mouth opens and closes like a fish gulping for air as the words are taken straight from him.

“How did you-?” he manages once his brain has calmed enough to speak.

“Your lanyard, idiot.”

Sebastian doesn’t know he’s capable of feeling humiliation until his cheeks burn cherry-red.

“Now help me with this damn thing,” the boy commands, gesturing to the branch. Sebastian meekly obeys.

 

 

—————

 

 

Sebastian thanks God that they’re still on the grounds of the art block as he carts the colossal branch around the building, occasionally barging through groups of people with his wooden shield while the boy just stands and smirks. They follow the path, taking a sharp corner through a courtyard that he didn’t know existed, and get to the door into the studio block. Sebastian sets the branch down, motioning to the door, but the incredulous look he receives in return says he’ll have to open it himself. He doesn’t get as far as balancing the wood against the wall before the brunet coughs.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Trying to bring-“ Sebastian breathes, shifting the branch slightly, “-this damn thing into your studio.”

The boy huffs a laugh through his nose. “I’m not working on this in my studio,” he replies off-hand.

Sebastian raises his eyebrows, realising the unsaid immediately.

“You’re not serious?”

“I’m entirely serious, Sebastian.”

He’s tempted to clout the boy over the head with the monstrosity in his hands, but instead he simply adjusts his grip and allows the brunet to guide him past the block and across the road.

Thankfully the route the boy takes him through the town is far less crowded than the main street had been, and he navigates narrow pavements with only a few pedestrian casualties. When the brunet eventually stops, Sebastian visibly relaxes in relief, leaning the wood against a discoloured brick wall and reaching in his pocket for the cigarette he’s wanted since he’s been tasked with the burden.

“Don’t,” the brunet interrupts. Sebastian halts his hand in mid-air.

“Eleven minutes, remember?”

Sebastian’s patience is wearing thin, and he clenches one fist by his side.

“Right, I’ve sat and watched you desecrate that tree, I’ve not even _questioned_ hauling it through town, and now you’re trying to tell me not to smoke?” he replies through gritted teeth.

“You’ve got the stairs to manage yet.”

Sebastian’s shoulders stiffen.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Deadly serious,” the boy repeats before producing a bunch of keys and dangling a fob in front of a sensor Sebastian hadn’t noticed. The door they’re stood in front of clicks open, and the brunet darts in, leaving Sebastian to play Tetris through the doorway.

 

 

—————

 

 

Every corridor Sebastian comes to, he prays he won’t be met with another set of stairs on the other side, and God lets him down for seven floors until he reaches the very top, disgustingly sweaty and panting (though he’s managed to stave away the customary university weight gain, his fitness has taken a toll from hours of sitting stationary at a workstation). The brunet greets him from a doorway, having skipped up the steps with ease, and nods the first gesture of appreciation Sebastian thinks he’s seen from him.

“Just lean it against the wall here,” he drawls. Sebastian relishes the chance to rid himself of the branch and rotates his wrists in an attempt to unstiffen them. He goes to turn away, and it’s only then that he realises just how surreal the last half hour has been. He raises one eyebrow, catching the boy by the shoulder as he attempts to slip back through the doorway.

“I’ve just done more exercise than I’ve done in weeks, for someone I don’t even have a name for.” There’s a silent _what the fuck am I doing_ tagged onto the end of the sentence, and the boy seems to catch it if his dull-eyed grin says anything.

“James,” the boy replies. “Your painting should be almost dry by now.”

“How did you-?” Sebastian starts, before throwing his hands up in the air in defeat.

“You know what? Never mind,” he finishes, mentally preparing himself for the seven flights of stairs he’s faced with to get down to street level. Just as his feet hit the first step, James calls him back.

“There’s a lift ‘round the corner if you want it.”

Sebastian bites back a roar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I was listening to Bo Burnham's 'Words, Words, Words' while writing this (give it a listen), and now have an incessant chorus of "bitches and hoes, bitches and hoes" running through my head.)
> 
> Finally, an introduction to James that lasts more than seven sentences! Hope I haven't disappointed with his appearance, and even without his murderous tendencies I've got my fingers crossed that I've managed to convey his self-entitled bullshitting attitude (which would be gross and infuriating if it came from anyone else).
> 
> ("I hate catchy choruses and I'm a hypocrite... hungry hungry hypocrite...")


	4. Timekeeping

As bleak and crumbling as the art block is, it had always been Sebastian’s sanctuary. The building had been mapped out in his head, and he could navigate stairs and every off-white corridor while his mind was focused on erasing the throngs of students from his vision during class breaks.

His journeys are far less peaceful now.

Every crowd he encounters, his eyes hone into any brief sight of dark hair, stalking his prey but ultimately losing sight of the boy as the corridor clears again. The window in the door of James’ studio has been blocked with newspaper after one too many lingering glances at the battered canvas, yet Sebastian still finds himself slowing to listen to the perverse melody of destruction before entering his own workshop.

Two weeks pass. Two weeks of interrupted journeys, and fleeting looks, and hope that never seems to lead anywhere. It’s hard to focus on your work when every footstep outside your room has you craning your neck in a futile attempt to see through the glass partition. The workshop is his prison, and his lack of concentration a never-ending walk through hell-fire.

It’s on his journey back to his flat after another wasted day on campus that he finally comes face-to-face with the boy again – even from a distance, the stony, tight-lipped scowl is recognisably James’. The boy’s eyes flick upwards, catching Sebastian’s for a split second before dropping back to the floor as he turns abruptly and attempts to walk away.

“Hey!”

Either the boy is selectively deaf, or his murderous stare says a conversation is the last thing on his mind. Sebastian chooses to assume the former.

“James! _Hey_!”

This time James stops. Sebastian adopts a graceless jog to catch up to him.

“What do you _want_?” The words are colder than the scattered frost over the grass.

Sebastian pauses for a moment, the question provoking his head to gradually grind to a halt.

“I just…” he stammers. “Wanted to say hello.”

“You’ve said it now.”

“Yeah. S’pose I have.”

James taps his foot impatiently, huffing a sigh that says _I’d rather be anywhere but here_.

“Can I go now?” He punctuates the sentence with a roll of his eyes.

“I, erm- I mean, sorry- would you like to grab a coffee?”

The incredulous stare Sebastian is met with him bores a hole into his forehead that he’s sure his brain is slowly seeping out of. Yet again, blood rushes to his cheeks and pools in ruddy blotches under the skin.

“I don’t drink coffee. Just wolves’ blood, and the occasional sip of battery fluid.”

He isn’t quite sure if James is joking, though a nervous laugh seems to be the right response.

“There’s a café off the high street. Not quite such a niche market, but they do fifty flavoured tea blends if that’s more your thing. Three, tomorrow?”

“Make it half past.”

“Done.”

As the boy disappears around a corner, Sebastian slaps his hand to his head, feeling himself slowly regress until he’s a little boy, shyly peeking around the kitchen counter to ask for a biscuit.

Sebastian Moran, all-round charmer, reduced to rubble by dark eyes and a forced smile.

He spends the last of the change in his pocket on a handle of whiskey, which is started and finished that evening during a grainy re-run of Panorama. _The Lens Of Impressionism_ makes an uncomfortable pillow when he finds unconsciousness at an obscene hour.

 

 

—————

 

 

He’s not sure what makes him don clean trousers and pull a navy sweater over his pressed shirt. It’s just a meeting. Getting to know the art student in the workshop next to his hardly seems like a formal occasion, yet when he walks into the living room he’s met with Michael’s raised eyebrows and a soft giggle from Steph (who, from her bloodshot eyes and mussed curls, has sought shelter with her boyfriend after a long and inebriated night).

“Hot date, Moran?”

Sebastian just rolls his eyes, flicking on the kettle. Michael doesn’t take the hint.

“Who is it? Let me guess – petite brunette, bumped into you in the hallway and suddenly you’re head over heels for her?”

“Yeah,” Steph echoes, “some kind of movie bullshit?”

He stifles a laugh as he watches coffee granules gradually dissolve into the water.

“I’ve got an exhibition this afternoon,” he murmurs, metal spoon clinking against porcelain as he stirs. After an experimental sip, the bitter coffee doesn’t touch the sides as he drinks away the beginnings of a hangover.

“Have fun, mate,” Michael replies absently, Steph ending his sentence with a half-hearted wave.

Sebastian groans, tripping over a sports bag in the hall on his way to grab his keys.

“Wrap it up!” comes a call from inside as he slams the front door shut.

 

 

—————

 

 

Every drop of drizzling rain hitting the window marks another second passed. Sebastian shakes away the image of an overdone teen movie scene as he places his head on the desk, listening to Marina explain course objectives and deadlines he’s read over a thousand times already. One water droplet traces the window, zig-zagging across the glass before coming to rest briefly on the sill. Then it’s gone, and he focuses his attention on another, which winds its way into another snaking stream.

“Sebastian?”

He jolts his head up. Marina knits her narrow eyebrows.

“Were you listening to a _word_ I just said?”

Sebastian just shrugs, his silence drawing the attention of several other students. One girl huffs a sigh of disapproval.

“Final piece deadline?” Marina prompts.

“Oh. Yeah, that. May fifteenth,” Sebastian recites, as though it’s been burned into his head.

“Glad to see you’re at least _attempting_ not to fail the course.”

He shoots her a grimace, and replaces his head on the wood until she eventually stops droning, and stools scrape crudely on the tiled floor as students begin to leave the room. He straightens his back just as Marina begins to weave through the mess of easels to his desk.

“Sebastian,” she starts, injecting pity into the air as he slips his hand into his pocket for his phone. “I like you. I like your work. I don’t like that I haven’t seen any evidence of it progressing since the beginning of September.”

No new messages. He drops it into the cavern of his bag where it slips under a battered notebook and a set of ink pens.

“I’m working on it. Promise.”

“Next Thursday. I want it in my office, no matter how big or small.”

“Got it,” Sebastian murmurs, hauling his satchel over his shoulder, edging past the woman and opening the studio door to a squealing mass of first years. He takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders, and barges through a loud group out into the courtyard.

Through the wall and the cacophonous buzz, he swears he can hear Marina sigh and lower her head into her hands.

He almost feels guilty.

 _Almost_.

 

 

—————

 

 

Teachers at secondary school had despaired any time the name Moran appeared on their register. Between him and his brother, he doubted they’d managed to arrive to more than a handful of classes on time.

“Moran!” they’d bark, the words reverberating around the classroom and missing him by mere millimetres.

“I’m only six minutes late. That’s twenty-four minutes earlier than yesterday.”

His quick retorts had the class smirking, and his own beaming smile became a get-out-of-jail-free card with the teachers, who had swiftly realised that there was no point arguing with Augustus’ boys.

If ever his father got wind of the boys’ antics, while Séverin would immediately conjure up a shield of aggression and brute force, Sebastian survived with rehearsed reasoning which neither Augustus nor Meredith could fault.

“I can be on time for things if I want to. School isn’t one of those things.”

After a couple of whined “ _But you should care!”_ s from his mother and numerous harsh beatings from his father, it seemed the couple had given up completely, and Sebastian escaped unscathed from punishment so long as his grades at the end of the year met expectations. They always did. Séverin was rarely so lucky.

Sebastian had first used the argument in his first year in a scratchy brown uniform, and it doesn’t seem to be fading any time soon. Sure enough, his bag vibrates at his feet ten minutes after he’s settled himself in the corner seat of the café.

The alarm on his phone is obsolete – he’s perfectly capable of reading wall clocks during the day, and red digital flashes are enough to wake him up in the morning. Regardless, the event had been programmed in on his way home from their chance meeting, scheduling a reminder he’d known he wouldn’t need.

Apparently James does, though. Thirty minutes pass, and two more cups of coffee are bought and bled dry before Sebastian has run out of both spare change and patience. The barista gives him a sympathetic wave as he trudges out of the shop into the drizzle, which seems to rain down harder with every step he takes. Taking shelter in the doorway of a barber shop, he lights a cigarette, which hisses at the water like an angry feline.

His eight-minute respite seems to be over far too quickly, but the rain pours harder and nothing on his person could serve as a makeshift umbrella. Four streets from his flat, he hurries, head down, following a steady stream of people all suffering similarly. The crowd disperses at a fork in the roads, and Sebastian ducks down a side street, leaning heavily into the buildings so that water only soaks one shoulder of his coat. Fumbling in his pocket for his keys, it comes to light that he doesn’t need them, as the door to his flat swings open as soon as it’s touched.

He doesn’t for a second suspect foul play. Who would want to commit burglary on a budget flat? (And even if someone had been stupid enough to break in, they would have left as soon as they saw the sorry excuse for a television in the living room). What he does suspect is that Michael has gone down even further in his estimations.

The door takes a little effort to click closed. He takes the stairs two at a time, readying himself for an adrenaline-fueled confrontation that would no doubt leave Steph in tears and Sebastian reduced to a mindless thug in Michael’s eyes.

There are no tears. Only a mischievous flash in dark eyes as Sebastian enters the living room to find James sprawled out on his sofa.

“Awful weather, isn’t it?”

There are a multitude of responses rushing through Sebastian’s mind – “ _how in the hell did you get in here?”_ and _“I’ve never told you where I live,”_ and _“where’s my roommate?”_

“I thought we agreed to meet in a coffee shop,” he replies instead.

“Didn’t fancy it in this weather,” James murmurs, tilting his head further back over the arm of the chair.

“So you came to my _flat_?” _Which I’ve never given you the address to, by the way._ “Did Michael let you in?”

“Who’s Michael?” the boy replies innocently, far enough off the sofa now to be a slumbering bat.

“My roommate. He let you in.”

“No he didn’t,” is the matter-of-fact reply. “Nobody was home, so I let myself in.”

“Right,” Sebastian answers eventually. He moves over to the kitchen to put the kettle on, though he doubts there’s any room left inside him for another drink.

“Do you have black liquorice tea?” James’ voice is muffled, barely indecipherable over the bubbling water.

Sebastian had known his pleasantries could only last so long, and it’s this question that tips him over the edge.

“I think it’s time for you to leave,” he forces out through gritted teeth.

James’ mouth is a perfect little ‘o’, his face contorted in surprise which Sebastian’s sure is fake.

“But you seemed so eager to meet me properly.”

“And then you broke into my flat. Kinda takes away from the whole ‘wanting to get to know you’ thing.”

“Can’t blame a man for being curious, can you?” James is on his feet now, circling the sofa and running his finger lightly over a dusty shelf. He inspects it, smells it before gingerly wiping it on the side of the sofa.

“You _broke into_ my _flat,_ ” Sebastian repeats incredulously, eyes following James’ slow traversing of the room.

“Your room is interesting,” the boy continues, ignoring any irritation in Sebastian’s voice. “Lots of blank wall space. Surprised you haven’t used it as a canvas yet.”

Sebastian massages the bridge of his nose.

“Security deposit would be shot to shit.”

“So?”

As the kettle clicks and the water gradually calms, Sebastian turns to find James clambering up onto the kitchen counter, searching through cupboards until he grins and pulls down a box from a top shelf. He jumps down, setting the box down next to the kettle.

“Lychee,” he murmurs, already making his way back through to the living room. “It’ll do.”

Sebastian frowns at the box marked STEPH in thick marker, studying the directions obediently before dropping a teabag in a mug and drowning it in water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'm so sorry this hasn't been posted sooner! Christmas and coursework deadlines have had me so busy I've barely even touched my computer. Hopefully the 2000+ words will (slightly) make up for my tardiness!
> 
> Secondly, James is a prick, and I love it. Though I wish Sebastian would punch him in the face sometimes.


End file.
